


If Doesn't Exist

by mussings_over_tea



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Inception quotes, M/M, Mindfuck, Out of Character, Self-Therapy Fic haha, Sort Of, This is basically, also a very important side note: do notice that nick only tops IN HIS HEAD haha, also this is how Nick loves and is with ppl in my head, and TT calling what he's doing now being a wholesome boyfriend? okay whatever rocks your boat, and they are both very, it's about idealising too and trying to force dreams into reality i guess?, it's me dealing with disillusionment, okay this is a complete, or does he? did i fall a victim of my own creation? anyway yep THE END from me on the matter, this boy has giant untreated mental issues, this fic is about that, you know when you build an image of a person and you try to fit them into your fantasies?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:26:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25246108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mussings_over_tea/pseuds/mussings_over_tea
Summary: “I can’t imagine you with all your complexity, all your perfection, all your imperfection. Look at you. You’re just a shade. You’re the best I can do, buy I’m sorry, you’re just not good enough.”
Relationships: Nick Kyrgios/Rafael Nadal
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	If Doesn't Exist

*

“You’re late,” Rafa judges him from his eyebrow raised. The effect this has long ago stopped being rebuking, though.

Nick feel only reassuring familiarity.

That everything is as it was supposed to be. Their bizarre, but still, routine. Pieces falling into place as destined. Nick is late, hair dishevelled, breath short, a paper cup of peace offering green tea in his one hand and a racket freshly stringed by himself in the other.

“And it wouldn’t be our training session, if I wasn’t, yeah?” he nudges Rafa playfully. Yes. He dares. And it doesn’t feel wrong or out of place. Why would it?

It’s their belonging.

It’s just assuming roles made for each other.

“So following the routine, you’ve come bearing gifts, thinking I’m gonna get easy on you,” Rafa budges by reaching for the cup with a crooked smile of someone keeping to his discipline most of the times, unless the affinity Nick causes in him makes him bend the rules. Makes him partial and maybe even soft.

“Of course not. I’m not fucking stupid. I’ve come bearing gifts, because you’re my favourite tennis person and I like to remind you of that fact often and loudly.”

Seeing Rafa take a sip of the tea Nick brought him, closing his eyes in content, with now only softness on his face revealed openly, makes him want to remove tennis from that admittance. Makes him want to claim the truth. That Rafa is his favourite person, period. And makes him think: what if Nick knew him by heart like that? What if they spoke without words like that? What if he was sure exactly what confession would follow.

Reassuring familiarity.

“Ha, so you know perfectly well, I’m not letting you win any free points, chico,” a moment of distraction as serenity in Nick remains a pleasant humming sensation, makes him miss the fact that Rafa’s already on the move, body wired a racket gripped by him like it’s a sword, an instrument of ancient games as if he’s charging to his side of the court, as if getting ready for a slam match against Nick.

“I wouldn’t want it any other way, coach,” Nick throws after him, his own physicality bound to Rafa’s furnace of energy, residue of the memories they made on court like that many times.

As if he didn’t party till late, last night. Thought of the upcoming training as a terrible chore. Woke up late, grumpy and tired, wanting to be anywhere else but on court, playing tennis.

As if he shouldn’t be doing anything else but play tennis with Rafa. Inevitably. Eventually. Always.

As if.

As if.

As if.

*

They are playing board games. It’s the middle of holiday season. Nick feels pumped and ready for the Oz. It’s not an obligation to perform for him any more Or the pressure of unfulfilled expectations. There’s joy of doing what he loves, what comes natural, almost effortless to him, because he no longer feels for the ground, blind, deaf and afraid. On a leash of demands and his own insecurities. He sees the end of the road perfectly clear and it’s to trust himself and give himself to this as it will lead him through the rest of the path, where nothing but completion awaits.

Rafa grunts a series of gentle complaints in Spanish at Daniel’s sneaky strategies to somehow always end up not only swamped with Poke Centers and Hotels but to draw all the Pokemoney from the rest of the players, leaving them drained often dry and mostly disgruntled.

Like Rafa is now.

Even if the wrinkle between his eyes doesn’t really fit into the corner of his lips lifting in fond amusement. An expression he so often has for Nick. And Nick’s family.

“Why do you insist on leaving everyone a bankrupt.” Nill chuckles at Daniel, bringing them another bowl of Mediterranean snacks, Rafa helped preparing before.

“Cos that’s the only thing I’m good at,” Horse shrugs nonchalantly. Maybe jokingly, maybe revealing his constant struggles with being lost in his Neverland, Nick no longer stays whole days with him in, so that they could hide from big monsters of reality together.

“That’s bull. You’re close to the best at cuddling, brother,” Nick pets his thick ginger mop of hair that’s started to thicken on top, a sign of time Daniel refuses to see and accept and Nick has these small gestures for him, commemorating the past but nudging him to move on, too.

“Gee, thanks for that /close/, man. That’s really reassuring,” Daniel makes a face of resignation at Nick’s affectionate teasing, still giving in to the gestures. Appreciation for trying but sending a signal that he’s getting there, to adulthood, at his own pace. Don’t sweat him.

“May I remind you that without your shoes design, Daniel, I wouldn’t probably get that 15th Paris title as my career would have been way over, not to mention coaching Nick would be off the table. So would sports in general,” Rafa throws in the sweeping statement, as if he’s commenting on the weather. As if it’s not the most revealing truth.

Nick shudders. Under the assault of memories. Remembering. Rafa’s burden. The chronic pain he never not lives with. And every day making sacrifices, making choices. Always choosing tennis, but this time Nick’s tennis. As if Nick can bring him the same sensation. Maintain experience of tennis Rafa cherishes so much. Still have tennis filling up his life to the brink.

As if Nick becomes Rafa’s life through tennis.

Nick remembers feeling guilty about this, too. A terrible obligation. Upon his undeserving, worthless, frail shoulders.

But he also remembers Rafa saying (or asking, or maybe even pleading): _I’m making a choice of believing in us._ (He didn’t say /you/. He instantly assumed /them/. Maybe already then knowing how it would fill up hollow spaces in Nick with cold anxiety swirling at the bottom). _Are you brave enough to do the same?_

Nick remembers all the fear, shame, guilt that always made the inside of him, dissolving into a hum of completion that now consists the very essence of him.

There is no _as if_. There is here and now (he’s grounded and he’s whole. It happened and it stayed) and Babz in the living room, torturing King with a fidget, with George, almost invisible, wrapped in his patient silence, focused on remodelling a set of furnishing, the contrast to Babz yelling.

“SO, WHO’S NUMBER ONE AT CUDDLING?”

Nick looks at Rafa, who seems preoccupied with fiddling with his monopoly cards. But a small, knowing smile on his lips tells Nick the questions and the implications between them it carries don’t go unnoticed.

“Quince, of course,” Nick nuzzles Quincy, who’s been sitting comfortably on his lap, where he belongs, with Nick consulting his Monopoly choices into his floppy ears all the time. To everyone’s amusement at the one, true, legit proof of who actually rules this entire household.

*

Sometimes they skip training and go to the nearby meadow with the dogs. Nick is recording Rafa racing with King after Frisbee or Quincy letting himself be cuddled as a compensation for the lost chase on his too short legs.

Nick vaguely remembers an echo of the truth or a gossip or maybe a dream of Rafa supposedly being afraid of the dogs.

It can’t be, though. It isn’t. Nick watches him belong out there, with /their/ dogs. Quincy drops the act of a proud, assessing dog he often has for strangers. Rafa is not a stranger. He never was. Nick doesn’t remember the times when he was. Quincy pants happily whenever Rafa’s large, sheltering hands reach for him, to pet, to scratch the floppy ears. Like he does for the members of the family. King responds to Rafa’s cues, even if they are in Spanish, waggling his tail and barking his joyful replies, full of meaning and acceptance and eagerness for more. There’s universal language between them. Transcending the words and meanings. Contained in acts and presence, instead.

The language of belonging and of a family.

Nick presses pause. Savouring the image the video freezes on (Rafa’s smile is brighter than the Australia’s sun when he kisses Quincy’s nose, holding him in his arms lovingly). Nick feels the heat from it inside and lets it sink in and fill him up. Another collection of images to have, to keep, to cherish. As proof of this belonging. This family.

No.

Not a proof.

Memories.

He doesn’t share this. He safe keeps it. Possessive or committed or both. It’s his. No. Theirs, and theirs only and there’s no need to prove anyone anything by sharing it. By allowing anyone from the outside in. To judge it, mock it, steal it, assess it.

Nick goes to them (his family). King barks enthusiastically, rushing to him, to greet him, and lick his hand. And Quincy sniffles in recognition, staying eagerly in Rafa’s arms though, which Nick doesn’t really blame him for. Wise choice.

Nick doesn’t need any proves, no reassurance and yet he asks, peering into Rafa’s eyes, maybe too used to searching for it after all.

“Do you miss Spain?”

Not: /how much/ or /how badly/. No. Nick believes in them. In the truth that is /them/.

“Sometimes. I don’t really have time to think about that, Nick,” Rafa scratches Quincy, a little bit absent-minded, like there are memories crawling from beneath the hum of every day, he maybe repressed or pushed aside. Then he throws Nick a confused glance, like wondering with just his expression what brought this on. What made him maybe doubt?

“Uhm, what about your family, Raf?” Nick insists. Shadows of creatures feeding on insecurities and fears lurk in the corner of his mind, growling, starved for the food he didn’t provide them with for a while. He has faith. He’s sure. But sometimes the monster raises their heads from inside the closet, still.

This has Rafa’s full attention. He lets Quincy go (even though Quincy murmurs displeasure at that), which brings him closer to Nick. Their gravity works, too. Their inevitable.

They were always meant to be this, were they?

So, Nick sways. Because it’s never close enough with Rafa and Rafa meets him halfway, responding to the law of physics between them with a hand on his cheek: big, sheltering caressing.

Nick leans, seeks the touch more. Seeks Rafa more. Never close enough.

What if he could disappear into him? What if he could crawl beneath his skin?

_What if?_

“Querido, isn’t my family here, right here? With me?” lips join the warmth of Rafa’s hand now, brushing Nick’s forehead to him hungrily moving closer, even closer, God, not close enough. His eyes water as his head becomes lighter and brighter, reverence and serenity of the moment cast the creatures away from within him. He’s nodding now, to that truth, accepting it, soaking it up, silently chanting: _yes, yes, yes_. Greedily consuming the sensation of belonging, enveloping him from the outside (Rafa’s smell like the sun and the wind, the island Nick calls home anyway , where he will always return to, to seek shelter) and from the inside (soft and peaceful in his soul).

“You really mean that, Raf?” the creatures are banished, for now, but they don’t disappear. They merely go to sleep. For the time being. Lulled by a familiar touch and beloved smell.

There is no answer this time. Nick’s in his bubble of completion before he opens his eyes to see Rafa back to chasing dogs, away, a small dot on the horizon now. As if the time skipped. With piece of it stolen.

Rafa could be merely a mirage now.

A what if of Nick’s restless soul seeking an anchor.

Always seeking.

*

Nick is struggling to stay focused on a game plan Rafa is going through with him currently. They are sitting on a bench of the Magistrate’s court. Nick doesn’t come here with his mates anymore to have fun, shoot videos, create pretences saving him from the crossfire of questions but mostly his own expectations unfulfilled. He comes here with his coach to train, to give his all, to think realistically of wins and not be afraid any more. To love tennis and be daring about it. He’s a regular visitor. An actual participant. With stakes and goals. Brimming with passion, eagerness and want. No longer an observer, of his own life, of tennis, too.

They are getting ready for the grass season. Rafa is wearing a fluffy cap and a matching scarf with tiny bulls Nill made for him. It’s freezing this time of the year in Canberra. The colour pattern of the clothes he has is gold and green. No sign of red.

It fits. As if he’s always worn it. Proud and belonging islander, yes. But in green and gold. A strange thought, Nick brushes away, distracted by the way Rafa’s cheeks are red (the colour that is missing) from cold, from doing the laps together before.

He discusses the strong points of Nick’s game they are about to work on, to make them a routine, to make them something engraved and instinctive, like Rafa’s forehand down the line always was or his one-two punch (Nick aches, remembering).

Nick tries to focus on the meaning of the words coming from Rafa’s mouth, but it’s difficult when he tries to trace every little line on Rafa’s face, read it like a map in his head. Crown’s feet around Rafa’s eyes (he laughs so much they are so much more prominent now), warm brown of passion and devotion in his still sharp and alerted gaze (how he can combine strict but affectionate, somehow he does), lips shaping around the phrases of heated faith and dedication he has for Nick’s tennis (Nick almost wants to look away, he recalls the times when he had nothing but shallow mockery for his tennis and it shames him, but he can’t, the view fills up his entire vision, and he still sometimes thinks he’s undeserving).

Familiarity, pride and want are all he is made of. He lets himself think, what if he touched Rafa’s cheek to let him know this, what if he bopped his nose to have him feel it, what if he showered his face with kisses to share this.

_What if. What if. What if._

“You’re not listening to a word I’ve been saying, niño, have you?” that mouth he thinks of kissing now smiles in crooked affection, before his eyes trace the rest of the features, getting to the look Rafa’s giving him and it’s warmth brimming with trust that greets him (like he doesn’t need a jacket or a scarf, like this is enough to shield him from sharp breeze and all the obstacles of the world in the end, really).

He starts speaking before the weight of the words catches up with him. Not much has changed.

“All that faith and hope and heart you had for the game, now you have it for me. I have a right to be distracted when I see all of this on your face like that, now.”

He’s laid bare with words. He’s laid bare with the way he’s leaning closer (never close enough) to feel every point of contact. To not only see this but feel this on his skin, too.

“I don’t have it, Nick,” Rafa lets him. Rafa joins him in this dance of hands now touching, trailing down his arms to weave their palms together in a gesture of loving reassurance.

Nick caves in. Nick melts. Nick trusts completely. And chases the next words coming from Rafa’s lips. (They are warm whispers, loud promises, unbreakable facts). “I choose to want that, because I choose you, Nick. Not some investment. Not a prize for the faith. Just you. Eres mi fe, mi esperanza, mi corazón.”

Nick feels the words on his mouth like echoes of kisses more than he recognizes them as sounds (warm whispers, loud promises, unbreakable facts).

Their vows.

They should be kissing. They should never stop.

But the touch is gone. Echoes of kisses scatter into barely felt residue.

Nick opens his eyes (like he’s waking up, maybe?).

As if Rafa never held his hands moments ago. As if Rafa never confessed vows of their absolute to his lips like softest kisses.

There’s a time skip, again, he’s somehow missed. A gap oozing impenetrable blackness. Sensationless. Memories-less. Rafa’s already on court, moving, full of purpose. Stomping like a majestic creature of strength and glory he never really stopped being, getting ready to go through their game plan just like before their match (before? In the past? That suddenly feels so long ago, as if that time gap stretched into infinity?).

But the echo of words remain. Inside his head or in his heart.

Spanish.

He hasn’t heard Rafa speak Spanish for so long, he muses.

Just like he hasn’t seen him in red and gold for awhile.

It’s strange. Eerie even. A feeling similar to the one you have in the shopping mall at night (stillness and quietness of life sucked out of this place for a moment). Or to being in silence in an abandoned church.

Nick calls after Rafa (suddenly terrified if he could hear him, if he’s really there), like he wants to enchant the reality.

“Why you don’t speak Spanish anymore, Raf?”

A boy asking about a shooting star.

_Where did it go? Can I catch it? Can I keep it?_

But Rafa sounds like he’s away. Muffled. Distant. No anchoring comes with his reply. No reassurance either. He replies in perfect English, too.

“That’s your bad influence on me. Out of many, sweetheart.”

There’s cheeky tone to him. Teasing wink follows. But Nick feels as if he’s betraying someone. Cheating on someone even.

An idea? Faith?

As if he’s spoiling the reality (a boy wishing on keeping the falling star discovers it was just a plane).

By revealing the truth.

*

The music blasts in the room, deafening techno and hypnotic lights interchangeably fill up the space. The place is strangely intimately, cocooned in dim aura of shadows moving sensually. One organism of lust and hunger pulsing in unity, the rhythm slow, though, rising to completion. It’s a place where you can find bizarre kind of shelter, hide with yourself, with loneliness and aches and pretend you belong, pretend to be entirely wrapped in this mass of strangers that suddenly seem like soul mates. To be safe in this oblivion of hedonism.

Rafa’s here with him.

Rafa’s in his arms.

Moving in sync to the rhythm of Nick’s hammering heart more than to the music.

The organism is large and welcoming around them but they don’t really need it. This pretended shelter. This fragile safety.

They are in their own world.

Nick forgot if they came here with anyone else. Rafa is his everyone. Here and now. Or always. The way his hands fit to the small of Nick’s back, the way his body is in contact with Nick’s at every angle, the way Nick feels his breath on the crook of his neck (there’s heat to it, there’s sensuality, too. Like they are in Nick’s bedroom. Like there is no one else but them feeling like one.) The way Nick tastes alcohol in the corner of Rafa’s mouth, he’s chasing desperately to get himself drunk on just that closeness between them.

Rafa lets him and the feel of this mouth, pliant and responsive sends electricity through his body, sobering him up from the booze and filling him up with nothing but lust for him. Languish fog of intoxication disappears and elation of togetherness is all he knows. Almost making him lose himself in a taste of some cheap cocktail on Rafa’s tongue and the feel of his body writhing under Nick’s hands.

Elation makes room for slimy chill of sobriety.

Or realization.

Rafa never drinks.

The aftertaste in his mouth is more tacky drink than Rafa. (Suddenly, he thinks, he doesn’t remember what Rafa tastes like. He thinks he only dreamed of ever knowing that.)

He seeks a reminder. Scared and confused (the music too loud, the atmosphere no longer intimate but heavy and suffocating. Old monsters raise up their heads inside his brain, demanding food.) Nick pulls Rafa closer, lines up their bodies again and mouth meets mouth in a frenzy as Rafa lets him again. Completely. Unapologetic.

God. Rafa never loses himself like that. Not in public. Not with strangers threatening to steal the bubble of their intimacy.

Slimy sobriety wins with anxiety of never knowing Rafa’s taste (he still doesn’t, Rafa tastes like something citrusy but bitter. Nick doesn’t have a memory to compare it to, but he’s sure it’s that glass of liquid rather than Rafa). He tears himself away from Rafa’s greedy mouth (with difficulty but necessity). Because Rafa only gets like that when they are alone. Their own and each other.

“Hey, stud, don’t you mind all these folks around us, maybe?” Nick asks. Alerted, languish lust shimmering beneath the surface though. Because he never not wants Rafa. He’s never close enough. But it feels wrong. Rafa’s hands now openly groping him feel foreign.

As if Nick never actually knew what his embrace feels like.

As if he never had any point of comparison to recognize this, them being like this, as familiar or not.

“Mhmmmm, considering what I’m thinking of doing to you, I think we should get out of here, niño,” Rafa remains merciless, though. Robbing Nick of all reason, melting the alertness with his fingers now busy on a fly of Nick’s jeans, feeling him over the material and Nick’s fully back to wanting. Wanting everything Rafa promises to give him with his body. Damn the sobriety. Damn foreignness, too.

Nick gets dizzy from the mouth now joining stroking hands, as Rafa’s adoring his neck with teeth and tongue, writing enchantments taking away his sight, taking away all the doubts.

As if he wants Nick so much he forgets all his rules.

He forgets to be himself.

As if Nick really knows what Rafa being himself means. What it would feel like.

He still can’t say no. He would never know how to say no. Even if sobriety still nudges his mind. But his mind is getting mushy, pliant and raw (pulsing with _yes, yours, Rafa_ ) under the hunger of Rafa’s body trying to merge with his.

So he lets Rafa grab his hand to walk them out of the club into the dark outside.

Dark. Unknown. Wrong.

And Nick doesn’t remember anything that follows.

As if he never got a confirmation of what Rafa really tastes like, how does he smell, and how their closeness feels familiar and safe.

As if he never knew this really.

*

“Have you ever thought of sailing around the world trip with me, Raf?” Nick asks, eyes closed, soaking up the afternoon sun as they lie on a beach with Rafa. Rare moments of peace and serenity. Away from tennis (they can be this, they can be together but away from tennis, too). Away from the pressure of the tournaments (that has stopped being this, really, that has become a boost of fuel and motivation instead).

Nick, more and more, gives in to the idea of ordinary life and them at the very centre of it. Outside everything that up to this point, has defined them (Nick is on a mission to prove that it did not. That they are more than tennis, more than coaching). That they can be together in this ordinary life. As equals. As partners.

As life partners.

“Silly boy, we don’t have time and even if we did, who would sail?” Nick hears the tone of incredulity in Rafa’s voice and he opens his eyes to look for it on that beloved face. He sees exactly what’s expected, he knows Rafa’s mini expressions by heart by now: the corner of his lips is lifted and his eyebrow mirrors the emotion. Nick melts inside (at the familiarity, at the youthfulness, cherishing what’s his, what’s known, what’s beloved). But the insecurities stir. Because, the expression is of incredulity still.

The prospect of ordinary life together, bizarre and unfitting to him?

“You dumbo, I’m gonna be a Rose to your Jack on _your_ yacht. What do you say?” he puts the emphasis on /your/, even though he thinks that a long time ago they started sharing and refer to things in their life as /theirs/. Nick gets himself closer, rolling on his side. Wanting to disperse the incredulity, seeking Rafa’s eagerness to share and be in this every day with Nick.

Being so close to Rafa, physically, feels like being close to something warm, radiant, good and safe. Nick needs to feel it more (it’s never close enough), because he needs to be sure that the faith in them (outside and inside tennis) is there. That it’s his.

Or /theirs/.

He bops Rafa’s nose, scrunching adorably under the sun but teasing grumpiness and prevailing confusion.

_No. No confusion, please._

In an attempt to soothe it (to disperse it) Nick is cradling Rafa’s cheek, tracing the shape of his dimples, like a blind man seeing what’s real, what’s true, inside Rafa’s heart.

Still seeking togetherness.

“But I don’t have a yacht, chiquito.”

And just like that the bubble of desperately sought serenity and reassurance bursts, pierced by something slimy and cold.

Nick jerks his hand away from Rafa’s face, like physically struck.

He thinks this might be how you feel when you’re stabbed.

The words like a dagger in his heart.

There’s also an audible gasp that is stuck in his throat as he struggles to let the question out. Still in denial. Still hoping for togetherness.

“Wh-what?”

Just as the racket is Rafa’s heart, the yacht has always been his soul. Everyone knows that. Especially Nick, being a part of Rafa’s life (outside tennis, outside tennis, too, _please_ ).

_Right?_

_Right?!_

But Rafa’s gaze in response to that is empty. There is no unlocking moment for him. Nick’s hand drops from touching Rafa’s chest (reading his heart, reading in between the lines, the beats, not hearing what he wants so much: the echo of his own heart). Rafa’s face becomes that of a stranger.

They both become something abstract and distant. Alien and unknown.

“What is it, Nick? You look like you’ve seen a ghost?” Rafa notices, the same confusion from before remaining on his face. He doesn’t try to bridge the gap between them with his body, with his hands, either. They lie unmoving on sand, facing each other, but somehow miles apart. The rift between them might have been the size of Pacific Ocean separating Australia and Mallorca.

As if /they/ were never real.

And Nick is lying here now with nothing but a ghost of “if”.

“What about golf?” Nick asks, meek, sinking deeper into coldness, groping for a life rope, in Rafa’s words.

The surprise on Rafa’s face becomes something ugly. No longer endearing. No longer cute. It becomes the chasm growing between them wider and wider. Nick’s hand spasms, in need of touching, of banishing the doubts away.

It feels like the sun has set and Nick’s shuddering under the chill of the autumn evening.

The words that follow bring nothing but the cold, dark, impenetrable night.

“On PC? Yes. Any other way? Boring and pointless. What’s wrong with you today? Come on, let’s go for a swim, chico,” Rafa lifts himself up in one swift motion, but doesn’t rush into the ocean. He reaches with his hand for Nick.

Finally, that eagerly awaited gesture saving Nick’s life comes. Because it’s either sinking deeper into the cold, dark night, into the chasm, to be consumed by the oblivion, or clasping that life rope of denial. Of refusal.

It’s not a choice. Not really.

Nick feels Rafa’s hand in his and pretends it makes him feel saved.

Pretends he recognizes the shape of it in his own palm. Remembers it, like he had a chance to learn it by heart.

Tells himself it’s not that of a stranger. But his, his, his. 

And he forgets the words from before, denying everything he used to think defines Rafa.

No matter. No matter. His hand in Nick’s does.

*

Rafa has always been incredible with kids. Nick doesn’t remember the times when they weren’t chasing him all over the Foundation like little planets orbiting the enormous, most radiant source of talent, beauty and heat.

The purest tennis. And most virtuous heart.

Soul made of stardust among the greyness of ordinary.

He feels selfish.

He remembers stealing Rafa away from the other place, just like the one he’s here at now, shining so bright, making it a shelter, making it a home for the lost and not belonging, as it was designed to be.

Nudged by this guilt, he decides to bring this up. He hands Rafa the towel to dry himself off after cheerful but intense rally he’s just played with the Avengers team to take on Gotham City in fun training activities they always come up with together. The kids shout after him “cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater, had a match point and couldn’t keep it”, creepy nursery rhymes they like to rearrange into tennis related, indicating what kind of strategies Rafa uses to win with them.

It doesn’t fit. Like a glitch in programming. Like disturbances in static in a radio program.

But Rafa’s cheeky smile distracts him enough to let it go for the time being.

Nick wants to kiss it away. Steal the shape of his mouth, the emotion of being relaxed and content and so incredibly happy to be here, together, with Nick, like that. Nick needs physical prove. He just brushes their hands together when taking the towel back from Rafa and suggests, beaming with the purpose (guilt shimmering beneath, though).

“We should combine our tennis schools into one. Kiddos back in Spain must feel left out, for sure. You kinda abandoned them to some second rate players, yeah? I mean it is Rafa Nadal Academy, after all.”

Rafa gulps on the bottle of water, making Nick stare, transfixed, at the way his throat muscles work. He’s sweaty and looks spent, like back in the days, glorious days of their matches, Nick often aches after. Sometimes, too often, he struggles to find purpose in playing matches at all, again, missing this unique competitiveness, this electricity of passionate determination they shared.

Because Nick wants. Never stops wanting Rafa. Now, wants to taste him like that: covered in effort and passion. In sweat and bronze of his skin. As he’s just gave his all for the kids. Rafa never not gives his all. Not even when retired. God. It used to infuriate Nick, because he yearned to have it for himself. As a tennis player and as Rafa’s opponent. Now, he wants to taste this, have this and mark Rafa as giving his all as Nick’s coach, inseparable part of Nick’s tennis life, always, now and forever.

Strange.

Even if Rafa is a part of his life in any form, Nick doesn’t stop wanting him. (As if it’s not enough. As if it’s not complete and aligned with what he really desires. As if it’s not real).

The rebuking tone scatters the ache inside him. For now.

“I told you, Nick. Your ranking doesn’t matter. You play the ball. You play the skills, not a …,”

“… a person with status. Yes, sir.” Nick finishes it up for him. Fond. And hungry. Because Rafa has his lecturing face, which, at this point of their life together, Nick wants to memories with kisses, too.

It used to vex him to no end. Having others tell him what to do. Instruct him. Rebuke him. Discipline him. It wasn’t about more experienced people sharing advice. Guiding him. Teaching him. No. It was about critic, abuse and rejection.

But Rafa is safe. Nick trusts everything he says. More. He believes in himself through Rafa’s words. Nick’s been growing, shaped by these words, blossoming into braver, more, beyond. Playing the game, but always having fun, on court. And off it, there’s patience, respect and understanding to life and people around him. No longer rushed demands or offended regrets. It’s all been taking shape under Rafa’s guidance, his presence. His faith, hope and want back.

How can it vex him?

No. It doesn’t. It fills him up with grounding purpose. Feeling strong and right with himself, who he is and what he aspires to still be. There’s feeling of something warm and light. Affection.

Love?

That’s why he almost can’t stop himself from peppering this beloved face with kisses now. Ends up with a hand on Rafa’s forearm and his face laughing into the crook of Rafa’s neck.

“Good boy,” Rafa pets his head, mouth somewhere in Nick’s hair, feeling hot and Nick practically bristles under the attention now.

God. When he gets like that (disciplining, but grounding and praising). When they get like that (Nick thinks of ropes he wants Rafa to tie him with, _mine, mine, mine_ and fuck into him with oblivion of ownership). There’s a whimper verbalizing this, burning Nick’s throat, but before the sounds come out, they are distracted by the kids singing some cartoon songs on the court, hitting the ball between the teams and aiming at various parts of the body, as taught by them both.

It’s practically impossible to entangle himself from pure lust now burning inside him, as he tries to nuzzle every available surface of Rafa’s body, to drink all the warmth of his presence. As their fingers break contact he manages to rasp to Rafa’s cheek:

“For you? Always, Señor Nadal.”

Lost in these moments of want between them, Nick’s forgotten the question he asked (the implications it had of him still being a thief, of him stealing Rafa away and putting him under glass copula of this life he created for them in Australia, a specimen of his own formation, almost a figment of his imagination, fitting at every angle to the wholesome image?).

Rafa reminds him, though.

“As for the Academy, Carlos has taken over there. I’m completely yours, Nick.”

Such a poignant confession. Everything Nick wants to hear and Nick clings to with his entire being, almost gulps on it. Like it’s liquid. An ambrosia to make him invincible (filled with reassurance, anchor, strength, it’s all rooted in it). 

But then, it’s gone, before he can grip it and consume it.

Rafa gets on court, away from Nick’s hands, away from whispered declarations, swarmed by kids, like something safe and warm (but no longer Nick’s to have?) with Nick left with only echo of the words the wind might as well have carried from the distance, said by someone else to someone else.

Strangers.

And a ghost of a touch and presence his imagination tricked him with.

A mirage.

A what if.

*

Sometimes during training they get lost in the adrenaline of the moments and act like they used to on court. The rivals on the opposite side of the net. Playing a match deciding of their tennis future.

Well, Rafa always trains like that, whenever he grabs a racket, it doesn’t matter whether he’s on court for a slam or to coach. There is no recreational tennis for Rafa and it’s infectious. It helps Nick always remember. The challenge this sport is supposed to be. A prize to chase after. Like before. Before Nick caught up with him. Before he captured him into his hands (into his life) to never let go.

There’s always intensity about Rafa, but Nick likes to think there’s intensity to him when he’s with Nick in particular, clashing, pushing, pulling, doing their dance of polar opposites. It’s there here now, too. The air sizzles palpably whenever the ball swishes between them, almost leaving a trail of smoke behind. Nick’s sure he can smell fire and sweat on his body. The layer of thick moisture resembling post-coital exhaustion buzzing with fresh pleasure. There’s almost vicious need in him to win. But because it’s Rafa on the other end of the court and he wants, no, he /n e e d s/ to corner him, pin him down, topple him. The greatest one he ever played (before, after, always, this never changed, no one got and will get close). And he wants to prove him again and again that he has caught up with him and so that Rafa is his.

When they get like that on a training court Nick remembers, with almost sharp pain in his chest, that it’s no longer there. The thrill is missing. Now, there’s no one on tour for him left to chase anymore. Not because he’s on top, unreachable, untouchable (even if he’s close, always there, relevant, dangerous, a constant threat). It’s because there is no more half of him ripped away onto the opposite side of the net to seek after to feel complete.

Now he has that other half of him and now he does feel complete.

This is the trade he needed to make. The price he would be willing to pay anyway, if it means having Rafa.

They will never play a competitive match against each other but they have this instead. They are together. Rafa looking at him from across the net, like he did back then, catching his breath, droplets of sweat trailing down his face, into the corners of his lips, where Nick’s mouth should be to lick them. Where Nick’s mouth can be, where he’s allowed now.

So Nick does follow the pull (the allowance). Fueled by a thread between them. His body taunt and wired and ready, to claim, to mark. As if he hasn’t just played an hour rally with the greatest of all time (still, still, always, forever).

Then he could dream of it, long after it. Now he can touch. Now he can have.

“I always miss this, Raf,” he speaks with teeth already by Rafa’s side, bites on Rafa’s skin, his sweaty, salty neck, hands pulling closer, that wet, strong, warm presence that’s his, his, his.

“Us almost going at it in the middle of a match, querido?” Nick can feel the shape of Rafa’s lips underneath his, smiling, while pliant, responsive, wanting, parted to breathe him in.

Fuck. It leaves him weak. It leaves him mad with desire. That monumental statue of a body, of a whole physical legacy, inside his arms, under his hands to mould, to shape, however he wants it, willing, arching, now grinding against Nick, right here in the open, asking him for more of that.

For more of being his.

“God, fuck, that’s exactly what I’ve been thinking about when we played. Please,” it comes out like a wretched whine.

Like he’s beseeching the reality.

But this is the reality. Isn’t it?

Rafa hard and eager in his arms, rutting against Nick’s thigh with mouth open in sighs that sound like Nick’s name, Nick desperately wants to tear from him and turn them into moans.

“Come on, show me, show me everything you want to do to me, Nick.”

So now Rafa’s moans have the meaning of these words and Nick is melting or straining or both, in greed to have it all. His mewl of approval disappears into Rafa’s open mouth (waiting for him already) in a filthy, wet, hungry kiss. He thinks he won’t get to show Rafa anything because he’s so close to coming. It almost hurts

Physically, but inside, too. That skin under his fingers, breaths mingling, tongues insatiable, bodies already merged.

It can’t be. It can’t be.

Why does it feel like almost having, but not?

This is what hurts. Like no matter how he gorges on it, it’s not real. It’s not his.

Nick tries to drown the hurt under more sensations. Drinks on more kisses, grips Rafa’s shoulders to leave fingerprints there, to prove there is no almost. He has it. All of this. He has him.

They stumble to the locker rooms of the tennis club and it’s tame breaking. Rafa tastes like resolution so Nick tries to devour it from every inch of skin available, mouth and teeth and tongue. Nick’s pushing him against the wall, tearing clothes away, getting to skin, more skin, going to his knees, revealing more of Rafa (resolution, salvation). He swallows his length, a perched man needing release with Rafa thrusting into Nick’s mouth with abandon, pulling his hair, grounding Nick, reminding him, this is real, this is yours. They fit so well, Rafa’s cock in his mouth, his hands scratching his nape, urging him on, pushing more into him. Like they are both carved from the same material

The feeling of Rafa spilling himself on Nick’s tongue, deep in his throat, chocking Nick makes him come (intoxicated on this reality, on this feeling, filthy, wet, warm, his). He licks Rafa dry, hearing him whimper from too much, thinking he could make him go again like that, hard and full in his mouth, but there’s so much to do. So much more he needs, he wants.

He has to confirm.

He doesn’t remember moving, he thinks he forgot the taste of Rafa inside him, too, when he’s on a bench now, clothes ripped off him, too. Rafa straddling him, rubbing them together, riding the high growing thicker and harder between them now. He licks droplets of himself of Nick’s chest and dives for a taste into Nick’s mouth, now combined on their tongues. Jesus. Like a tornado of sensations, all at once, he can’t pick one, focus on it, cherish it, remember it forever. Nick’s body feels liquid, like he doesn’t have command of it at all (like it’s not real), with Rafa rocking himself on his lap, making them meet in wet slaps of pleasure building. Strong thighs like vines, never letting him go ( _don’t, never, please_ ) but also trapping him in this carousel of everything, too much, _let me keep something to recognize and know later_.

Nick tries to hold Rafa, stop him from moving, to pause them in this moment of bodies being so close, breaths as one, lips clashing clumsily. He grips Rafa’s thighs (again, to leave marks) to wrap him tighter around himself (to feel how real this is) and he moves them like that to the shower cabins, chasing Rafa’s mouth, trying to catch his eyes, as if silently asking: _you’re here? Are you?_

Rafa’s face speaks of ecstasy, speaks of completion, of _more, yes, please, fuck_ , but somehow none of the expressions stays with him for too long. With every steps he makes, carrying Rafa (Nick’s strong now, capable. Pillar of skills, muscles and focus under Rafa’s guidance, under his care, under his love?) the image gets stolen away from him. Disappears and Nick can’t catch it, keep it, hold it.

“Look at me, please,” he murmurs, as they meet the wall and Nick seeks that confirmation from his mouth, nuzzling that face.

But Rafa eludes him. Rafa entangles himself from Nick’s embrace and is leaning now against the wall of the cabin they got to. Sprawled obscenely, arching invitingly, pushing himself wide and open for Nick. For the taking.

Jesus fucking Christ. He was supposed to do something. Remember. Cherish. Pause them. But he can’t. Nick’s body longs to have Rafa. Have him, again and again and again. And never have enough. This is all for him. The buffet. He can feast. It’s real. It’s his. _Please_. The muscles on Rafa’s back spasming. He looks shamelessly needy, clenching on the air, calling for Nick to fill him up to the brink.

Nick bites on his fist to muffle the raw groan of naked want that feels almost feverish. That’s why he forgets to remember. It’s only now that matters. Robust with hunger to have.

Mine.

Real.

“Come on, fuck me, Nick. I need you. I want you so much, love.”

And then the words feel almost like a punch. Groan becomes a cry bursting what feels like inside his lungs, after a long run in the heat. Burning him there.

_Love._

Rafa never said it. Never used these words. With body weeping to be claimed, too. (But he can’t see his face. His eyes, either. And he was supposed to remember something. What Rafa looks like when he’s Nick’s, yes?). But Nick can’t stop. He’s a victim of the gravity. His body bound to Rafa’s now. Pure instinct. Want that blinds him. (So he forgets to remember). He touches Rafa’s hips, ready to line himself up against that perfect, tight, welcoming heat that awaits him (where he will come home). Takes a breath in and breath out along with it the words, sinking in, as he tries to engrave them onto his heart.

“How did you call me, Rafa?” he rasps into the centre of Rafa’s back. Sounds weak. Like he’s in pain.

He is.

It hurts.

Like when you almost taste everything you ever wanted and it’s too much at once.

Like you almost remember something so important defining your entire life.

“I love you. I love you, Nick,” Rafa turns his head slightly, mumbles warm whispers into Nick’s mouth closing now on Rafa’s nape in search of a breath he finds in a kiss.

Reassurance.

Truth.

This is real.

This is his.

And he needs to remember this. Engrave this onto his heart forever.

“I wanna see you. See this on your face. Rafa, please,” Nick pleads in between awkward, sloppy kisses they exchange but Rafa doesn’t let him change the position, see his face.

See, remember, keep.

He weaves their fingers together in non-verbal response and pulls Nick’s one hand to his length with raw, revealing, disarming.

“I’m so close. I want to come with you fucking me, Nick. Please,” and then he pushes back with his body in an infuriatingly rotating motion of his hips, rocking against Nick in all the right angles and knocking all the remaining thoughts out of his head.

(He was supposed to remember something? What was it? Seek confirmation. Find realization.)

It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but the closeness of Rafa’s body lined up perfectly against Nick’s, as if they are really made for each other. Always have been.

It feels like Nick slipping home when he guides himself into Rafa’s maddening heat and lets himself be greedily swallowed, locked in gravity and instinct of inevitably falling together like belonging pieces. There are mewling, languished sounds overlaying and echoing in the place, Nick thinks sound like words coming from one of them. He can’t speak, it’s not him, he’s settled deep inside Rafa with body melting in purpose, struggling the pre-mature release he’s on the verge of.

It’s Rafa who’s talking, moaning sounds shaped into words as he nudges them to move, hands joined pumping his length now. The words finally get to Nick through the ringing in his head. It’s something tender, it’s something filthy, it’s something in between to their increasing, rocking motion.

_So good._

_Fuck me._

_So good._

_Like that._

_No one._

_Just you._

_Love you._

_Inside me._

_Like that._

It’s too much. The words mingled with sensations taking over his body. He’s reduced to whimpers released into Rafa’s sweaty skin, as Nick dives deeper and deeper, fucking into that all-encompassing heat, fingers digging into hips (to leave proof that this is real, this is happening), teeth joining in (so he can remember what not to forget) and his other palm bringing Rafa over the edge so that they could find release together. Rafa’s warm and leaking onto his fingers and Nick thinks he already forgot the taste of him, just melting on his tongue, spilling in his mouth. He thinks he never saw his face, either, when Nick’s inside him so deep, like this is the first time, like they’ve never done it before.

That body against him feels familiar, is beautiful, bending to his will, letting him shape it into his whims but among the overwhelming ecstasy that takes over more and more Nick has a terrible thought that it could be anyone. Unless he sees Rafa’s face (loving him back). Tastes him (wanting him back).

To remember.

To never forget.

He could see himself disappearing in and out of Rafa’s all-consuming heat with Rafa bent for him obscenely to let himself be fucked almost violently. Nick cries now, wordless pleas for release, teeth busy, leaving marks (leaving proofs) everywhere he can reach. The wordless pleas have shape inside his soul though.

To see Rafa’s face. To read the truth there.

He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t manage. He’s spilling himself inside this nameless body now. Doesn’t taste Rafa’s orgasm from his fingers as they reach the height together, to confirm, to know. Doesn’t have time to admire his cum trailing down Rafa’s thighs like marking of ownership either. Doesn’t turn him around to kiss sweat and freckles and wrinkles of retreating pleasure from this beloved face raw with the truth of /them/.

The blackness of the unknown sucks him in now as if he never saw any of it, knew any of it, learned any of it.

As if there never really was any _them._

*

Nick opens his eyes to thick, impenetrable darkness of a place. It takes some time for the clogs to shift inside his brain so that he is able to recognize the surrounding (the when, the where, the what).

His eyelids still feel like they weigh tons.

Like something inside him doesn’t want to let him go, have him re-emerge onto the surface of cold, harsh reality. So that he can stay under for a moment longer. (Forever).

( _Don’t leave. It’s so cruel outside_ ).

There is a shimmer of a different world inside him. The world /under/. Shapes moving, sounds echoing. But nothing tangible. The darkness on the outside starts to scatter and the world under disappear, forcing him outside. Whether he wants it or not, to swim onto the surface.

So he does. Resurfaces. Slowly. It still feels wrong. Cold and hostile. Like he’s tearing himself away from something familiar to something foreign.

The recognition does kick in. He’s in his room. In his parents’ house. The other side of his bed is empty. Chizz went to visit her family but it felt like she’s asking for a week away from him (for a break from them or her being so very much /his/?). Fuck this. The honeymoon period is over, he guesses and distracts himself with streaming till dawn, to avoid begging for scraps. Because tennis is on pause and they (or he) are stuck in this purgatory of what’s next?

This he recalls. His lungs feel weak and small, as if he didn’t use them for a while. Nor his entire body. As if he lived in his mind for a while and forgot what body does. He manages to get up and waddles to the bathroom, robotic movement made of muscle memory mostly, rather than someone in control of his body.

He hears a TV running downstairs. It might be middle of the night or early evening. Time is irrelevant. He thinks he remembers Christos staying the night (Nick can’t be alone). He remembers them watching something before he went out to hang out with his pack (he can’t be alone). Before she went away, Chiara left her hoodie in his house, the one he bought for her, the one going so well with the shoes and the socks. And everything else. The one making her /his/. It made him upset. Her going away (her taking a break, asking for it in between the lines) and her leaving these clothes like a strange symbol of this separation or freedom. He drank a whole bottle of wine with his mates until the buzz of thoughts and doubts became dull shimmer of white noise.

How did he come back, though? When did he come back? His memory is a tapestry of scattered images sloppily and loosely sewn into something resembling mismatched whole. The threads are acts he put on, dreams he hides deeply inside himself and pretends doesn’t yearn after. But it all somehow holds together the mask he can hide behind and lead people astray with.

He leans against the stairway rail to listen to the voice coming from the screen downstairs, as if a force anchoring him on the surface of this cold reality. The words reach him and he recognizes the film but is all sounds like there’s commentary in his head to something that might have happened miles away, behind the glass, inside the clogs of his brain or in a different universe. So the words take on different meaning. Feel like punches.

“I can’t imagine you with all your complexity, all your perfection, all your imperfection. Look at you. You’re just a shade. You’re the best I can do, buy I’m sorry, you’re just not good enough.”

It’s good he’s already supporting himself against the bar, so he can remain standing.

There’s a wave of images in his head. Echoes of sounds, scenes and sensations becoming loud cacophony of too much, too loud, too intense.

And yet, not enough.

_Almost_ that hurts.

Suddenly he knows what he was supposed to remember. But it never happened. It was never his. It was stolen, forced, created.

Fake.

Not lived at all.

There’s something in his throat and his eyes fill with moisture as he clings to the wooden surface for dear life. To anchor himself in this cold and empty reality he’s been dragged into. It’s not memories he recalls now. It’s _what if_ scenarios he dreamed of. Made them. (Just as he’s manufacturing them for Chiara now, until she said, no until she refused to play a leading role in his theatre).

_What if they trained together._

_What if Nick found all the strength, motivation and focus he needed with him, being a part of his life._

_What if there was familiarity and belonging, across miles, despite differences._

_What if they could live in one place._

_What if they could talk for hours and shared the same interests._

_Or kiss for hours and not being able to keep their hands off each other, but it is allowed, because they share the same want to be together._

_What if he was a different person._

_What if Rafa was? (Made for Nick. Because made by Nick for himself.)_

_What if. What if. What if._

Gasping for breath, ashamed, angry and despairing all at once he remembers something else. Said once by Rafa.

A verdict.

On them.

On Nick.

Or the truth he can’t escape from into no amount of shelters built out of the pretences and his own creations.

_If doesn’t exist._

And so, it doesn’t. An so none of it is his. It never was. It’s inside him, created and made. And sometimes gets unlocked to help him pretend and lose himself in it blindingly.

Now he has a replacement for it. Now he has a doll to dress up and shape into a perfect match to fill in that oozing space in his life (because he can’t be alone). But she said no. Maybe saw through his ways and broke free (he can’t be alone), so, in a response, he dived into this world of wish fulfilment inside himself to numb himself with (im)possibilities.

And then it happens like it always does. He’s forced to swim onto the surface after a while and the grief after not having this hits him all the same.

With anger and despair.

So he lashes out (provokes, seeks controversies). So he screams (mouths back, argues, challenges). So he hides in his cave (lives his perfect fake life at home where no one can confront this and reveal the falsehood of it).

And so he does now, too. Goes to the bathroom, plans his busy day of empty entertainment, booze and noise of irrelevant interactions. Robotic, routine, fuelled by anger and silent despair. Away from acceptance. 

Away from if that doesn’t exist.


End file.
